Valentine
by Abigor
Summary: An old man prepares a meal for his Valentine


TITLE: Valentine

AUTHOR: Abigor 

EMAIL: shunt511@aol.com 

CATEGORY: ummm, Viginette, Angst

SPOILERS: none, I think

SEASON / SEQUEL: future story

RATING: PG, there's a kinda ick factor, but no violence 

SUMMARY: An old man prepares a meal for his Valentine 

STATUS: Complete 

ARCHIVE: Anywhere if you actually want it, but mail and tell me, so I can go peek

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viagra, MGM/UA, Double Strength Perspiration, and Iguana Productions. This has been written story for educational purposes only and no bananas whatsoever have exchanged feet. Copyright infringement is totally intended, but hey, never mind. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of me. They're mine do you hear me! MINE goddammit!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was originally written for an English class in year 10, as a response to the task 'write a short story under the title Valentine' – I always did like to be different….

Valentine 

The soft lilt of violins drifted across the room, crackling as the archaic record player struggled to play through the dust infected grooves. Swamping the unbalanced, splintered table, the patched cloth let of a musty stench not masked by the wilted roses at the tables centre. The flowers drooped over the sparkling white plates and gleaming cutlery, shining out painfully amid the other dust ridden surfaces. The window's partially opaque panes allowed little light to penetrate the rooms' smothering atmosphere. Few beams reached the rotten floorboards, dust motes playing gently in those that did.

The man was middle aged, beer bellied and balding, but hummed happily to himself as he frantically bustled round the room. Everything had to be perfect. Perfect like her. He sank to his knees, and, calmer, slowly teased open the side cabinets' door. The ancient wood refused to budge and momentarily enraged his fist erupted towards the door, unbridled with fury, a glint of rage in his black orbs. He swore and looked over his gnarled hand for splinters carefully, his temper having sunk for now. The door lay in shattered pieces

Had anyone asked him before her, he would have said love at first sight was inconceivable. Now he knew better. He knew she loved him too, so he'd taken her to his mother's old house. She'd resisted at first, protested a bit. That's what he loved about her, she never put herself first, didn't want him to go to the effort. 

He picked out two wine glasses, meticulously checking for chips or cracks, spit shining them to purity. He placed them lovingly on the table before reaching down for the candelabra, rusted from lack of use. It had been so long. From the windowsill he grabbed two candle stumps and placing them in the holder, tried to entice a flame from the lighter to the crusted wicks. The flames danced on the darkened wall, desperately reaching for the oxygen. She had done that. When she went away, he missed her.

Finally, he paused and gazed tentatively over the long deserted dwelling, embellished with loving care to form a mocking shadow of a candlelit meal. He ignored the cost of dust, the spiders, the scuttling from under the skirting board. He saw that first fateful meal when he had told her. Satisfied he deemed it time to serve the fare he lovingly prepared earlier. He dished out two luke warm servings, ensuring slightly more sauce on her plate and slightly more pasta on his. Just like she always wanted. He tipped the dirty bottle, allowed the wine to slosh around glass, before carefully picking out the leftover pieces of cork. Taking one of the roses that gave up it's tenacious hold on life days ago, he held it between his thumb and forefinger, inhaled the phantom of a scent and went to entice his love to her valentine.

From the first time he saw her he knew they were right. He had never spoken of it, but he knew. He watched her from afar, adored her, quietly tried to make his affection known. At first she hadn't seen, but he had helped her. When she first stayed he had been overjoyed. And then she never left. He had thought she would be too feisty. He liked his women feisty. It must be the military in her. But she was soft and gentle too. He knew, he had seen her. His face broke into a smile, like it did whenever he thought of her. Taking his gift, he went to his valentine.

The cupboard door creaked over. He gazed down at her, mesmerised by her beauty, tucking away a stray blonde lock back behind her ear. He was so grateful he had been shown her, walking across the park. She lived so close, just out of reach. She was his now. He had been scared of the other, but she had chosen him. His chest swelled with pride; she had chosen him, not that brown eyed Colonel. 

He encouraged her to get up, to walk there alone, but she ignored him, her crystal orbs focused on some point beyond him. The door. He scooped her frail form up, her bird bones hardly weighing him down. Her lungs were oxygen starved, the space under the stairs humid and stuffy. She no longer fought the bonds that still held her as he carried out to the table. But all he thought of now was that they were meant for each other. He loved every part of her, with every part of him. His love for her was rooted deep in his soul. He would die for her.

He'd had his heart stolen.

But she was one who was dying


End file.
